Posts Tagged ‘molliesrules’


Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…






Wednesday, July 3rd, 2013


1.  Call it what it really is – a longer weekend where you can wear white to make your tan look tanner. You’re not patriotic. You’re not celebrating the birth of this nation. You’re celebrating the fact that there’s a sale at Blue and Cream.



2. Despite the abysmal economy, refrain, at all costs, from buying the Old Navy five-dollar July 4th t-shirt. You may as well wear a shirt that says “I Heart Cheap Polyester. That Pills. Before I Even Wash It.”



3. If you are in the city, please understand that just because a patch of grass has pushed its way through some concrete, this is not an invitation to set up a hibachi, pig-roasting spit or aluminum table big enough to seat all of the original colonists.



4. You don’t have to eat red white and blue foods in order to demonstrate your patriotism. Those gross greasy dessert shells filled with berries and Cool Whip don’t say, “Happy July 4th.” Ditto a sheet cake with red and white frosting stripes and blueberry stars. They just say “I’m white.” I’m so, so, so white…



5. You can’t sing “Star Spangled Banner.” You don’t know the lyrics. Even if you do, you don’t have the vocal range. And even if you do, you don’t know which war this was written during, and unless someone yells, “Play ball!” immediately after, no one, but no one wants to hear you sing this. Or anything else, probably.



6.  Do you like your hands? Both of them? All ten fingers? Is your last name “Grucci Brothers”? Please ask yourself these questions over again before EMT wends its way to your house, and your friend has to tell the emergency worker, “It was just some cherry bombs and I think his thumb is somewhere over by the hydrangea bushes.” Ka-ka-ka-BOOM!





satire for the literate – OH REALLY?

Wednesday, July 13th, 2011

I have put this off but when really great material taunts you, year after year, eventually one must give in. And, as this could be the end of the road for The Real Housewives of New York City — in six months these women will be as relevant as The Jonas Brothers — this could be my last chance. And I’m taking it.

Let’s deconstruct the title: The Real Housewives of New York City.

Real – These women are about as real as a piñata. There’s less skin-stretching, filler and stuffing in the Museum of Natural History’s Hall of Mammals. You know those beverages that have to be called “juice drinks” by law because they don’t have enough actual juice in them? Think of them as the human equivalent of “Sunny DeLite.”

Housewives — Back in the 1950s, my mother was a housewife. My dad went to work, and my mom stayed home and raised us. She took us to school, went on school trips, shopped at the butcher, the baker and the fruit market, prepared the meals, sewed, did laundry, helped us with our homework, read to us, watched “Leave it to Beaver” and “The Beverly Hillbillies” with us.

These women may be a lot of things, but “housewives” isn’t one of them. So “girls” – which is what you refer to yourselves as even though you haven’t been girls since Central Park was a cow pasture – please find another common noun that describes you more accurately. And really – what’s up with “the girls” thing? Does it make you feel younger to call yourselves “girls”? I wouldn’t feel wealthier if I called myself The Beatles, so I’m not sure how that particular delusion works. Do you think that the power of suggestion will somehow fool us into thinking – “no – they’re not pushing 50. No, they aren’t Spanxed from their ankles to their necks. They’re really quite coquettish.”? Hmm…. (Oh, and Jill – Spanx – Skweezed? Screech at Bobby to call your lawyers…)

Real and Housewives — Perhaps Bravo’s Andy Cohen’s crossed eyes served as an impairment when casting this show.

Had he looked hard or harder or at all, he might have discovered authentic “real” New York City housewives, maybe even women who don’t down Pinot Grigio like it’s “The Last Supper” or wear earrings the size of light fixtures or record “disco” songs when their “vocal stylings” make me miss Madelaine Kahn’s “I’m So Tired,” from Blazing Saddles.

Next, note that part of the compound word “housewife” contains the word “wife.” Is it possible to be a real housewife if you aren’t a wife? That’s like saying you’re a real starfish only you’re a bagel. So, now we see that not only are none of them are housewives — half of them aren’t even wives. Let’s look closer. Closer…

Ramona Singer

Okay, she does have a husband, which technically and legally makes her a “wife.” But she’s a wife who married someone name “Mario,” whom she insists on calling “Mourrio,” and is about three cases of wine away from a stint at Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. The Upper East Side’s Scary Spice.

Vajazzle Brazil-Wax Queen Cindy Something

Did this show really need another woman as in touch with her chronological age as Dane Cook is with his entertainment value? “Housewife” Cindy is actually closer in age to social security recipients than the mommies at “Mommy and Me” classes and seems to be more interested in ridding the city of female body hair than raising those twins who will be sophomores in college when Mom is 75. She has at least one nanny per kid, a very annoying brother and very, very old parents. But a husband? I think you need one of those to qualify as a wife…

AlexandandSimon, a.k.a “Silex

Remember when the expression “They’d go to the opening of an envelope” was used as hyperbole? Well, Alex and Simon actually would. No. Really — manila, #10 envelope, Jiffy Bag, glassine, one of those envelopes with the cash-card you give at a Bar Mitzvah or christening? They’d be there and he’d be wearing something inappropriate, cringe-worthy, and probably made of animal skin and glitter. In their case, it’s clear that neither of them are “real housewives” because I’ve seen their sons, you know – the ones with the ridiculously pretentious names? Johann and Francois? The ones they force to speak French (for god-knows what reason as they live in Brooklyn), one of whom threw a fit and smashed around someone else’s thirty-dollar hamburger at “The 21 Club”, both of whom, I am guessing, wear Speedo mankinis when dragged to St. Barts in the off-season? Maybe when they make a show called SOCIAL CLIMBERS WHO LIVE IN CARROLL GARDENS AND MISTAKE THEIR CHILDREN’S ADHD FOR ‘GIFTED,’ they can have their own show. And wouldn’t that be special?

Sonja Morgan

First, isn’t “Sonia” spelled “S-o-n-i-a”? What’s up with the “j”? Is that because she thinks it looks fancier? It doesn’t. It just looks more Scandinavian-er Sonja is also not a wife, but a woman in her forties who thinks she is in her 20s, divorced from the 80-year-old heir to the J.P. Morgan banking fortune. Anna Nicole Smith with better table manners and no Howard K. Stern. Stop showing me your thighs and your ass, Sonja. Stop dressing up in Marie Antoinette shit and Caberet burlesque shit because real housewives don’t have the time for that shit. But I would like to see you weep again about the possibility of your losing your $14 million dollar townhouse because 1) it really wasn’t ever yours and 2) I want to feel financially superior to you. I already feel morally and ethically superior – just wanted to go three for three.

Bethenny Frankel
Even though you “spun off” into the egocentric center of an unwatchable show, (except when you berate your house-husband and his small-town parents), The Real Housewives of New York City catapulted you into the reality star you’ve become. Actually, you began on “The Apprentice: Martha Stewart,” which you’d hoped, everyone had forgotten. You were a caterer living with a long-haired dog, hawking Skinny Girl Margaritas, but you were not a housewife. You still really aren’t, but your husband is, so I guess that’s something.

Kelly Bensimon

Ah, Kelly – you’re kooky but that’s the worst I can say about you. You’ve grown on me. You’re the most genuine, most sincere, most attractive one on this train-wreck of a series. I like Kelly and she’s a real mom but not a real housewife. So, when they do “The Real Housemoms of New York City,” she’s a natural.

Countess” Luanne de Lesseps

First, aren’t the words “Luanne” and “Countess” mutually exclusive? “Luanne” is a name as in, “Luanne, go check the still to see if the moonshine’s ready,” or “Luanne – Go see who moved into the double-wide next door,” or “Luanne – there’s company– go and fetch us some vittles.” At best, she’s n she’s an ex-wife of an old coot of a “Count” less attractive than The Count on “Sesame Street.” She now dates a Frenchman named Jacques, who, she’s revealed, her –ex would never approve of because, “well…you know…Jacques is…well – he’s a Jew.”

Also, Luanne, darling, please note that we are not living in pre-Revolution France and therefore we are not only unimpressed with your title, we snicker at it. We know that even you think it’s important, we know it’s a made-up title that you got by merely marrying someone. It doesn’t really count, “Countess.” And after “The Count” divorced you, his next wife he takes also gets to be called “Countess,” and so on and so forth. And eventually, after so many Countesses, the title has about the same value as the Rolexes they sell on Canal Street. And stop singing. You can’t sing. Even if all of your rich sycophant friends say that you can. Marlena Deitrich, dead, has a better voice. Word.

Jill Zarin

Oy. What can I say about her that hasn’t already been said by her? Okay – at least I can say it more softly and without the cackle. Who thought I’d ever miss Whitney Houston shouting “Bobby!” It seems that every ethnic group and minority has some of its own that make the majority of the group cringe. As part of your ethnic group, Jill Zarin and, on behalf of all twelve tribes, I implore you – STFU.

So there you have it. Not real. Not housewives. And…

Q: If all of the Upper West Side moves to Park Slope and Cobble Hill and Brooklyn Heights, and they open up cheese shops and hipster boutiques and Fairway Markets and Whole Foods, when does Brooklyn become Manhattan?

A: It doesn’t.

Not New York City. Thanks, Alex and Simon. Maybe next season you’ll social-climb your way out of bridge-and-tunnel status. Now, there’s a story arc…